


Loss Not Enduring

by Fuoco



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Disfigurement, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Recovery, Sick Character, vague Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6976474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuoco/pseuds/Fuoco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danarius knew any number of spells to flay skin neatly. The Magister <i>chose</i> to use knives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss Not Enduring

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for Prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15195.html?thread=60632155#t60632155  
> (Posted some time ago but i'm collecting my fills on AO3 so I can finish them over the summer.)
> 
> Most warning tags stop applying after the first section.

Danarius knew any number of spells to flay skin neatly. The Magister _chose_ to use knives.  
  
The blades were serrated, rusted, and dug at uneven depths in Fenris' flesh. It was done with violence - with little consideration for wasted lyrium and much, much less for the warrior's bodily integrity. Several cuts were made in places Fenris knew there was nothing but skin and sinew to be found.

  
He awoke much later, with pain but somehow alive, in a bright room so unlike the cell he thought – _began to hope_ \- he would die in.

  
He began to panic, but a hand held his gently, shakily, and he sleeps with peace.

  
…  
They are patient with him. Hawke especially, who let Fenris steal their bed as he healed. Fenris wasn’t in any condition to refuse, to do anything other than sleep most hours of the day. The parts of his body that survived the ordeal weakened as he rested and there was nothing Fenris could do about it.

  
The best Fenris could do to repay the rogue was to cooperate with their intentions – worst of which was allowing the healer’s magic. The ghost of a reaction ached in his lyrium-absent skin. Hawke did not hold his hand – the skin there was raw and a finger broken – but gripped the sheet nearby. Fenris felt the difference and his heart felt a little less cold.

  
It’s… something.

  
…  
He’d been returned for two weeks before he had strength enough to move. As soon as the elf was alone, he attempted to stand. It hurt terribly, just as everything did, but he was determined to settle what had been causing him anxiety: Fenris did not know what he’d come to look like. Luckily, there was a mirror just across the room – the footsteps from his raw feet only tracked a little blood.

  
He does not recognize who he sees.

  
...  
Fenris remembered the knife running over his chin, neck, ears, cheeks, and in his mouth for a moment to slice it open on the left side. Now he would never be able to forget it – each strike was immortalized in branches of broad, ropey, half healed scars that sculpted his face into something strange and monstrous.

  
His body fared no better. Bastardizations of his tattoo stretched over most of his body. Shiny and discolored. They were accompanied by fresh marks crisscrossing old in other areas, deep breaks of skin at joints that would burn every time he moved forever.

  
...  
After that he avoids the mirror and tries to forget. When his companions begin to visit Fenris can’t look them in the eyes – didn’t want to see how they’d look at him.  
  
  
He _burns_ the memory of Hawke calling him handsome.


End file.
